


Five o’clock contemplation

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Governor Tarkin contemplates whether to give in to his aide’s wishes and have something sweet with his tea.





	Five o’clock contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in the third person, but the woman Tarkin is thinking about is unnamed, so it might just as well be you, if you like :-)
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to Cassandra1 for proof-reading.

Sometimes he fucks her. The woman just now preparing his tea, his aide. She looks so cool and professional, but he knows how her voice sounds keening, whining with desperation. The vacant look in her eyes when she’s beyond caring what he does to her, as long as he keeps at it. How she blushes when she begs to let her touch him with these hands that handle the teapot with the confidence of familiarity. Will she ever become that confident with him? He would have to allow her to… practise.

The thought of it is pleasantly stimulating. It isn’t the all-consuming desire of youth that used to set his blood boiling, but he can feel areas in his brain lightening up. Perhaps he should do it again, tonight. It’s too soon, he’s growing soft, but she wants it so much. She doesn’t speak of it, but he sees it in her posture. She has this endearing way of arching her back when she’s horny, and as if that wasn’t enough, she touches the sleeve of his tunic so excessively he really ought to reprimand her for it. She shouldn’t be allowed to take liberties with his person. Stop it, he should say, right now when she approaches with his cup.

She walks slowly, navigates around him so that she can approach him from the side, where his hand on the armrest is so close to her thigh, to that ridiculously stuck-out rump. Is she hoping that he would lay his hand there instead, steal a grope while she’s serving him? It will never happen. Her fingertips brush against his sleeve as she rearranges the spoon, then again as she pours the milk. She’s eager tonight.

Sometimes he doesn’t touch her for weeks at a time. Why? Perchance to hear her sweet pleas, to see the broken look in her eyes, and her bravery fighting tears and not quite succeeding but refusing to give up.

Most of the time, it’s to punish himself. Considering his rank and his responsibilities – _her consent_ – he has every right to do this. Everyone beds their aides. And yet there’s that ancestral voice in his head insisting that this relationship, this weakness, is a spot on his officer’s honour, that he ought either to marry her (a disgrace as well, though a milder one by comparison) or send her away. Leave her alone.

Her eyes follow his hand as he lifts the cup. The very idea of not being able to quench his thirst is sickening. Better then to keep her close, but deny himself use of her. Builds character, they say. But tonight – tonight – he desires her mouth around his cock, her perfect cunt taking every inch of him. Her quiet sighs when he’s gentle with her – which he has been more often than not lately. Her screams when he’s rougher, when he pounds into her, like it’s all that separates him from the grave. Her youth, the plumpness of her flesh. Life.

The tea is bitter against his palate, refreshing. What idiocy is this, two adult beings dancing around each other like rutting veermoks? Come, he should say, ask her to sit on his lap, tell her to lead the way to the bedroom, or maybe simply order her to bend over the desk, with the same voice he uses to silence debate.

He clears his throat.


End file.
